Life is different—both too slow and too fast. Too slow, I am not quick enough to butter toast while it’s still hot or catch him when he falls from that one step before the fireplace. Fast is just a word for how time steals him from me. It steals him in his sleep—a new boy …
We pick oranges. I can see the sweat on his Miami Dolphins t shirt, and on his upper lip.
“For a moment, I expected the impossible. And then it happened.” Where are you? Wild winds whipping up against a desolate landscape. Cold skies and a raging heart. You have been uprooted. Torn from the comfort of the ordinary, you have been exposed. But do not go blind, little dove. Look around you. The …
There are still things inside the world to bring astonishment. The first sip from a cup of coffee in the morning, while you watch the dayglow filter through the window. The way that someone asks how are you and they really mean it. The eggs that I collect, each morning, from my chickens. The weight …
Even though I won’t ever see them again, I still carry them. Inside and outside On the lining of my heart And the edges of my brain Beneath my fingernails Or hanging from an eyelash. They saturate my writing and my words Sloping from an s, or cradled in a y. Sometimes, they are even …
Continue reading About the body
You want to rip your hair out, over and over again. You want to tear at it until your mind grows quiet with exhaustion. Until your scalp, with a suddenness now feeling cold and empty, grows tired. You want to cry them back to life, as if your tears have hidden power in their flowing. …
Continue reading Boys don’t cry
An aunt of mine makes quilts, for every generation of the family. When we are young, she shows us ours—the patches for each sibling. I remember being worried that my brother, newly born, did not have a square. Worried he had been forgotten in the weaving all together of a family. I watch the grown …
Continue reading Patchwork Girl
Some people, you can hear the way their heart hurts when they speak. I’ve hit a wall in this exploration of family. I think it comes from the fact of my youth. So many of their memories I can’t remember, which makes me feel like I am not deserving of their story. I am …
The Wild Heart of Life 